Chapter Fifteen: Laughing Proudly at the World

A high-end seven-seater business vehicle sped along the highway. Wan Peng was at the wheel, serving as the driver. Seated behind him were Lin Weitian, Wang Yunfang, and Lin Xiaolei.

"You! Running away from home, really? If your cousin’s classmate hadn’t happened to bump into you, you’d have suffered for sure," Wang Yunfang scolded bluntly.

"You say I put too much pressure on you, but you’re only studying. If the pressure is already too much now, how will you manage in society? Useless," Lin Weitian grumbled. "Compared to you, the pressure I face in business is countless times greater."

"Exactly. If you can’t handle even a little pressure, you’re really hopeless," Wang Yunfang continued to berate.

Wan Peng, driving, shrugged in silence. His aunt and uncle were both of this temperament.

Lin Xiaolei said nothing. Her mind was consumed by the events of the past two days.

This was her first time playing an online game.

She played support, while that person was the ADC.

It was the first time since she turned ten that she truly enjoyed herself.

No longer was she hearing, "Go read, practice piano, practice calligraphy."

This was also the first time she’d received a novel as a gift.

Lin Xiaolei gently touched her pocket, caressing the book "The Proud Smiling Wanderer" through the fabric, and warmth blossomed inside her.

Yes, as that person said, in three and a half years, she would graduate high school and go to university—then she’d be free. Thinking this way, the next three years didn’t seem so hard to endure.

...

The internet in the southern provinces—no, the entire country—was about to explode again.

Because of a single post.

The post was titled, "My Real Experience at Feikuang Internet Addiction Center."

It was a long post.

The content was shocking.

"At four in the morning on a certain day, my father dragged me out of an internet café and into a taxi. I asked where we were going, and he didn’t hide it; he told me directly: Feikuang Internet Addiction Center. I thought we were going for psychological counseling, and honestly, I was tired of that life, so I didn’t resist. I slumped in the seat and drifted into sleep. We arrived at the center around five in the morning; it hadn’t opened yet. My mother went upstairs to find a doctor while my father and I waited below."

"I don’t know how much time passed. Half-asleep, someone woke me and led me into a ward. The sign at the door read ‘Psychological Correction Room.’ I didn’t think much and followed them in. Groggy, I sat in a chair, and the moment I did, several young men sprang into action. Each had a long cloth strip. One tied my legs, another used cloth to secure me to the chair. Two held my hands—one wedged my arm under his armpit, pressing it against the chair armrest, another forced my hand onto the surgical table."

"Suddenly subjected to this treatment, I snapped awake and looked around. It was a ward facing north, sparsely furnished. On the south side was an oxygen tank; in the center, a surgical table. To the north, diagonally opposite me, sat a stout doctor, imposing in his presence (not Yang Feikuang). On the surgical table was a square device, bristling with wires. The doctor grabbed an acupuncture needle and aimed it at my hand pinned to the surgical table, without disinfecting it with iodine. Sensing trouble, panic surged in me. I jerked my hand back and tried to break free."

"He began attaching clamps to the acupuncture needle—four on the palm, four on the back, each connected to wires leading to the device on the table, which was already powered on. Its label read ‘Multi-Frequency Pulse Therapy Device.’ Below, a small screen like a calculator displayed numbers. I remember clearly—the number was 70."

"Suddenly, a surge of electricity coursed through my arm, accompanied by excruciating pain that ripped through my mind. My sanity shattered in an instant. I opened my mouth to scream, but the young man holding my shoulder suddenly pressed a tissue over my mouth. I couldn’t shout, only let out muffled sobs, my body twisting uncontrollably."

"The feeling defied description. It was as if a needle churned through the flesh of my right hand. My mind went blank, my right arm numb, my brain crawling with phantom insects, vision faded to white—nothing was visible. That agony wasn’t like ordinary wounds or bleeding; it was incomparable. I’d been injured and stitched before, but those pains were perhaps a tenth as severe as this."

"He was tightly bound to the bed, writhing left and right, begging: ‘Uncle Yang, I was wrong, Uncle Yang, I was wrong…’ But Uncle Yang showed no sympathy, coldly replying: ‘Now you know you’re wrong? Where was that awareness before?’ Then someone shoved a Y-shaped rubber breathing tube into Xiao Wei’s mouth. Later, I learned it was to prevent biting the tongue, intentionally or otherwise, from unbearable pain."

"Yang Feikuang began adjusting the devices—one on the left, one on the right, two near the head. I thought the electric shocks to the muscles between thumb and forefinger were terrifying enough, but Yang Feikuang had even more tricks. Xiao Wei tried to scream, shaking his head in helpless pleas, but it was useless. The first needles Yang Feikuang inserted were in the temples—one left, one right. As soon as the needles went in, the safety team quickly attached the clamps. I could do nothing but stand by, hands behind my back, stunned. Even if I wanted to help, I was too dumbfounded. I just stared, wide-eyed, at what was happening."

"For me, even though over a year has passed, I can still remember every treatment I underwent there, every detail clear in my mind. Yang Feikuang kept scolding Xiao Wei, who only cried and begged for mercy. Yang Feikuang sneered, ‘You know, yet you still did it. Who are you letting down?’ Then he switched on all the devices. This session lasted more than ten minutes. Yang Feikuang kept twisting the dials on four machines. Sometimes there was a crisp click, then another, as the devices turned off and instantly on again, creating waves of pain too intense to endure or adapt to..."

"I can’t imagine Xiao Wei’s suffering, but it must have been worse than death; otherwise, he’d rather jump off a building than endure this agony. The treatment lasted over two hours. By the end, Yang Feikuang was exhausted, sitting in a chair, fiddling with the current knobs, calling the safety team to massage his back and shoulders. Xiao Wei lay there like a corpse, eyes hollow, drool trickling from his mouth. Only when the devices were switched on did his body twitch; he no longer resisted. To Yang Feikuang’s words, he could only reply, ‘Yes, I was wrong, Uncle Yang.’"

"I will never forget the scene of that treatment. Afterward, Xiao Wei couldn’t walk at all. His hands and temples, after the needles were removed, bore small black holes, bloodless—probably burnt shut. Yang Feikuang said after removing the needles, ‘Don’t reveal what happened here, or you’ll experience Uncle Yang’s special session yourself.’ It was only after a long while that Xiao Wei could get up. We supported him as we left that hell, and as we departed, we had to thank Uncle Yang: ‘Thank you, Uncle Yang. Uncle Yang, you’ve worked hard. Goodbye, Uncle Yang!’"

"Xiao Wei still couldn’t walk properly. We supported him along the way, his facial muscles seemingly frozen, sometimes twitching unconsciously, expressionless, staring blankly ahead, his mouth slightly open—a thin gap. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or simply unable to close his mouth anymore..."

(The time has come to formally confront the King of Lightning, Yang! Please vote for recommendations!!!)